


Armed Lunatics, INC.

by raegrayson



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raegrayson/pseuds/raegrayson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of ramblings in the armed luantics, inc au 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm mostly posting these here to have something actually posted to my AO3. Armed Lunatics is a weird amalgam au that mkes no sense if you aren't me and Shanna, really.

People should be afraid of Ariana.

Raylan knows this as surely as he knows his own name. Ariana is a warrior of Highever, has felled ogres with but a pair of short swords, can kill a man without regret. People should fear her, for she is a woman burned by grief and betrayal, a woman on a mission who’s rage is so deep and so powerful it can manifest. 

Many people do not fear her. Many men look upon her, see her slight build, her pretty face, and think her a girl playing dress up in her father’s armor. They think her weak and fragile and easy to break.

She loves it. She uses it to her advantage, twists strange men into knots before cutting them down. She uses them and disposes of them in the same way she would a broken sword. 

People should be afraid of Ariana. Those who do not, who are too stupid, who underestimate her, often don’t live long enough to learn.


	2. Chapter 2

The camp is dark and quiet. Leliana is sleeping, as is Wynne. Sten stands, as he always does, watching the entrances to the camp, fierce and quiet. Faolan and Mako are slumbering in a large pile of muscle and fur and drool. Morrigan is off in her corner, doing whatever it is she does while the rest of them bond. Raylan sits on the ground by the fire, opposite Alistair, thoroughly beating him at Wicked Grace.

 

“Are you even trying?” Raylan laughs and Alistair scowls deeply.

 

“You're cheating. You got cheating lessons from that sneaky pirate lady and now you're using your new sneaky cheat-y skills to rob me of my food,” he moans, pitifully, as Raylan pops another piece of (fairly won) cheese into his mouth. “I'm so sorry, my darlings.”

 

“Are you apologizing to your cheese?” Raylan snorts.

 

“I am! I have foolishly allowed it to be stolen away from me by a sneaky elf who took sneaky lessons from sneaky pirate ladies,” Alistair hisses and Raylan laughs again.

 

Ariana bursts from the trees at the edge of camp and barrels forward to where Zevran is polishing his new boots. “Zev!” she cries, grabbing his wrist and hauling him unceremoniously to his feet. “Come here, I have to show you something.”

 

“Can it wait-” Zevran starts, but Ariana just drags him along behind her like a rag doll.

 

Alistair squints after them, cheese woes all but forgotten. “They've become very close. D'you think we should be jealous?”

 

“I think the appropriate reaction would be apprehension and fear,” Raylan drawls, watching Ariana present some shiny rock she found in the forest. Alistair continues to glare at them. “You don't like him, do you?”

 

“What?” Alistair wheezes, faking innocence painting his feature. “Don't be ridiculous! Zevran's...” he frowns, waves a hand, says, “He's very...small.” The last word stretches in his mouth and he winces at the end.

 

“He's the same size as me,” Raylan points out, smothering his glee at watching Alistair flap uselessly like a baby bird.

 

“Yes, yes, and that's...good! You're travel-sized, both of you! Don't take up too much room in camp!” the look on Alistair's face very clearly indicates that he's aware he sounds like an idiot, so Raylan takes pity on him.

 

“Ariana trusts him. So do I,” Raylan reminds him.

 

“You're biased,” Alistair grunts.

 

“If he still intended to kill us, he could've done it a hundred times by now,” Raylan says. “Maker knows he's had me in a...vulnerable position. Multiple ones. Almost every night.”

 

“Yes, we've all heard quite clearly,” Alistair groans. “Maybe that's part of the problem.”

 

Raylan tilts his head and then, when the meaning behind his friend's words catch on, frowns. “That's a touching thought, but I don't need you to defend my honor, Alistair. I may be small, but I am a grown man.”

 

“That's...fine, that's what I meant, and I _know_ you're more than capable of defending your own honor, but you're Ariana's...brother person, and I-” He looks at Raylan and catches sight of the amused expression on the elf's face. “You're teasing me. Fine. I admit it, I'm ridiculous because I _care_ about whether or not my friends are sleeping with someone who once tried to kill us all.”

 

“You're a good man, Alistair,” Raylan tells him. “And a good friend, with a good heart. I would not ask you to change, but trust us, hm? Ariana is an excellent judge of character. She never liked Howe.”

 

“Aye, I suppose you're right,” Alistair sighs. 


	3. Chapter 3

It is a bizarre moment, when Raylan realizes that he is happy. He has just watched Ariana take a flying leap and bury her swords into the neck of an ogre. She cackles as it falls, blood sprayed across her silvery-purple armor. Beside him, Alistair inhales sharply and Raylan glances at him out of the corner of his eyes. He looks enraptured by the sight, totally besotted for Ari and her fearsome recklessness. Raylan imagines many men would be intimidated by her superiority or enraged by her tendency to leap at a dangerous monster. Alistair is just in awe, an expression like he's never seen something so amazing in his young life. 

 

“We,” Zevran cackles, panting slightly with the exertion of murdering a hoard of darkspawn in a confined space. “Are ridiculous awesome.” 

 

“Aye,” Raylan laughs, grinning fiercely, happiness bubbling up in his chest. It's not like he wasn't happy before. At Highever, he was content and pleased. He was safe and comfortable, he had friends and respect he wouldn't have had in the alienage. But, after Howe's betrayal, after he and Duncan dragged an enraged Ariana away from her burning home, abandoning her parents, his father and everyone they knew, he'd thought maybe he'd never feel joy again. 

 

He'd been wrong. He misses his parents, Ariana's parents. He wonders, probably as often as Ariana does, where Fergus is, if he's alive, if he knows they are. He's sad and he's angry and he wants Howe's head on a pike. 

 

But, still, here in the Deep Roads, with Ariana grimly leading them through scores of demons, a half-blitzed dwarf their only assurance they're going the right way, he realizes that he is happy. He is content. 

 

At Highever, he and Ariana had never truly been at ease. They chafed under her mother's need to keep her children safe, under the strict rules that came with being noble born (and a noble's servant; no matter how highly the Couslands regarded him, Raylan is an elf, he's under no illusions to the contrary) and a woman. They were never truly free to do as they pleased. 

 

They are not truly free now, but, they're doing something. They're fighting the good fight, putting their skills to good use, not just rotting away in a castle. He feels like they are where they are meant to be. 

 

“Why do darkspawn have money?” Ariana asks the room at large. 

 

Zevran shrugs, Alistair tilts his head, Oghren burps. “They've been saving it for you, my dear warrior queen,” Zevran replies. 

 

“How kind of them,” she drawls, stripping the armor off one.

 

“I have found my place in the world,” Raylan declares. 

 

Ariana pauses in her search and squints around as if to confirm _yes, still in the Deep Roads, still on a quest for stupid dwarves._ “What, here?” she asks, incredulous. “This cavern? Full of darkspawn and giant spiders and those weird little lizard beasts?” 

 

“Very funny,” Raylan says, voice dry like sandpaper. 

 

“No, I think it's nice,” Ariana continues, standing and wiping blood on Oghren's hair. “You and Zev can build a quaint little hovel and adopt some baby darkspawn and raise them as your own.” 

 

“We must be sure to invite that bizarre little dwarf fellow over for tea,” Zevran adds, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Ruck, was it?” 

 

“How sweet!” Ariana coos, clasping her hands in front of her chest. 

 

“Ha ha,” Raylan sighs. “I'm trying to have a nice moment and let you all know how much I care about you and appreciate your presence in my life, but if you two want to be little shits, by all means.” He waves his hands at them wearily. 

 

“Did you expect something different?” Alistair asks, eyes wide and wondering. “Perhaps we should check you for a head injury.” 

 

“I despise all of you,” Raylan says. “Except Oghren. He has yet to mock me. Oghren is my only friend now.” 

 

Oghren merely belches in response. The others laugh, Raylan sighs again, but it's a good feeling. His idiot friends and their idiot remarks aside, he truly does feel that he has found his place in the world. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

“We should get going,” Ariana says, irritation seeping into her voice with every word the dwarf says. 

 

“Yes,” the Captain says, dryly. “You should.” 

 

“Oh, dear,” Raylan whispers. 

 

“Listen here, little man,” Ariana hisses, beckoning him closer. Raylan makes an abortive gesture, but it's too late. He's already within striking distance. Faster than they can stop, Ariana's fist flies out, slamming into the guard's throat and making him stagger backwards. 

 

“Whoa!” Alistair howls, linking an arm under one of hers. Sten grabs the other and they haul her up and backwards, her feet kicking the air in annoyance.

 

“It's fine,” she hisses. “It's fine, I'm fine.”

 

“Don't test our patience, surface,” the guard wheezes, but he backs away from them warily. 

 

“Are you relaxed?” Alistair asks her, voice low and soothing. 

 

“I'm _fine_ ,” she spits. 

 

Raylan sighs. This is already going so well.


	5. Chapter 5

“I don't care if the Assembly puts a drunken monkey on the throne,” Branka spits. Ariana can _see_ the madness in her eyes, this woman is lost to whatever stupid obsession drove her down here. She rants about the Anvil, her desperation bleeding into her voice. Raylan, appointed voice of the group for this particular quest in light of Ariana's prejudices (not _racism_ , thank you) against dwarves, attempts to reason with her, but she's too far gone. 

 

And Ariana is done.

 

She's done with dwarves and their political cow shit and the sodding, bleeding, blighted Deep Roads, she's done with this whole place. 

 

“Listen here, you little bitch,” Ariana snarls and Raylan sighs.

 

“Here we go,” he mutters, putting a hand over his face. 

 

“I don't give a shit about your king or your Anvil or any of this thrice-damned nonsense. I need armies to fight off the sodding darkspawn and, to get them, I need you,” she tries to keep her voice level, she does, but her tone gets harsher with every word. “My patience is at the end of a very, very short rope. We've been down here for days, the man I love nearly _died_ , my friends are all injured and if I don't breathe some fresh air very soon, I won't be responsible for my actions. You are going to _give_ me what I need or I am going to take it by force.” 

 

Branka looks winded by the force behind Ariana's words and, at her elbow, Oghren lets out a low, approving whistle. Branka's face realigns back into it's former hardened mask and she says, “You need a Paragon to chose your king, I need the Anvil. Get it for me and I'll support whichever drunken monkey you want.” 

 

“Alright,” Raylan interrupts before Ariana can start snarling again. “We've come this far, right? We can do this.” 

 

“These dwarves better be fucking worth all this bleeding trouble,” Ariana grumbles.

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Thank the beautiful Maker!” Ariana cries in a rare bout of unrestrained happiness as they shuffle back into camp. 

 

Alistair sits in his regular spot near the fire, seemingly healed from all his horrible injuries. With an almost uncharacteristically girly squeal, Ariana launches herself at him, collapsing happily into his lap. He lets out a surprised, pained grunt, but it's cut off as she grabs his face between her hands and kisses him, rough and wet and deeply and completely without a care for the stares of their friends. “I missed you,” she whispers, pulling back from the kiss to hug him tightly, then shouts and rears back. “Oh! Your injuries, are they-?” 

 

“All better,” he replies, hastily, grabbing her and pulling her back down. “I missed you, too. Do me a favor?” 

 

“Anything,” she replies, kissing his jaw. 

 

“Don't go on anymore underground adventures without me,” he breathes, kissing her deeply again. 

 

The others avert their gazes, Morrigan wanders back to her alcove, Leliana busies herself with Schmooples. After a few long moment, Wynne decides that her wish to give the pair some privacy is not stronger than her need to tend to Ariana's many injuries and hauls her off by the collar of her armor. Ariana goes, with little protest, weariness making her limbs heavy and the fight bleed out of her. 

 

Raylan drops down beside a dazed looking Alistair, who tilts his head and says, “Well, she was very...enthusiastic. What was that about?” 

 

“Well,” Raylan replies, scratching his chin contemplatively. “A number of things, I suppose. She's very, very happy to be away from Orzammar, very, very happy to be done with dwarves-” Across the camp, Oghren belches, cackles and falls backwards. “- excluding Oghren, of course, who she seems oddly fond of. She was also very worried about you. She's...quite attached to you, it seems.” 

 

Alistair flushes and stares at his knees. “I'm quite attached to her, so that's good. I was worried, too, I hated leaving you all down there with those...things.”

 

“It wasn't so bad after you left, actually, just a few darkspawn and some golems,” Raylan shrugs. “It's probably good that you left when you did. We had to make some...unfortunate choices. I doubt you'd have approved.” 

 

Alistair tilts his head and Raylan can see all sort of fantastically horrible scenarios flooding his brain. “What sorts of choices?” 

 

“It's not my place to tell you,” Raylan replies. “You may ask Ariana and she will tell you, if she thinks you'll understand. I...do, I suppose. We did what we had to do.” 

 

Wynne has finished tending to the wounded and Ariana scurries back to them, grabbing Alistair's hand in hers and hauling him to his feet. “My apologies, my darling Raylan, but I need this man to tear my clothes off and take me in a manly fashion.” 

 

“Be gentle with me,” Alistair whimpers as she drags him towards their tent. Ariana shoots him an incredulous eyebrow raise and he laughs. “Oh, who am I kidding.” 

 

“Ah, young love,” says Zevran, appearing at Raylan's elbow as he stands. 

 

“They've got some good ideas,” Raylan murmurs, hitching an eyebrow. 

 

Zevran raises one in return, a filthy smile spreading across his face. “Indeed they do. Shall we?” he gestures towards Raylan's tent. 

 

Raylan grabs Zevran's hips and begins to back them up towards it's opening. “We shall,” he murmurs, sealing their lips together. 

 

“This is ridiculous,” Wynne mutters, packing her supplies away. “It's like living in a brothel.”

 

“I think it's sweet,” Leliana sighs, looking wistful. “Love can bloom even in the darkest of times.” 

 

“Aye, there is that,” Wynne allows. “But, still, they could be a little quieter. They aren't alone.” 


	7. Chapter 7

They are seventeen, or thereabouts. Ariana forgets exactly, which she finds odd. An event that changed so much, surely the date would be burned into her mind? But no, there is only before the event and after. 

 

They are seventeen and they are hunting. It's the first time they've been allowed out on their own, no Father or Fergus or Ser Gilmore hovering and protecting their precious lady. Just Ariana and Raylan, riding hard through the woods, laughing and honing their skills. They feel free, even if it is fleeting. 

 

It's fun, just the two of them. Raylan hits a deer in the throat with an arrow from a 100 yards on a moving horse. Ariana kills a boar with a dagger and her quick feet. It's fun. 

 

But then it's not. 

 

Raylan hears the man before they see him. He's clearly drunk, crashing through the undergrowth, muttering to himself. They're on foot, mounts tied a few yards away while they followed a remarkably flighty deer. He crashes into their clearing, disheveled and smelling so strongly of alcohol that Ariana recoils. A robin soars on his tunic, red and beautiful and completely unlike the creature that wears it. 

 

“Stupid bitch,” he growls. “Fuckin' elf thinks she can scorn _me_?” 

 

They freeze and Raylan reaches up slowly, undoes the tie in his too-long hair and lets it fall down. It obscures his ears, but barely. The man catches sight of them, then and stumbles forward. His eyes are glazed and unfocused. “You! Girl. Girls! Oho!” He shuffles forward and they lurch to their feet. 

 

“Stay back, I warn you,” Ariana says, holding her blade in front of them. 

 

“Feisty!” he crows, but his is not deterred. 

 

Ariana pushes against Raylan's chest and they step backwards, carefully so as not to provoke him into rash actions. Raylan's foot catches on their prey and he falls, the momentum disturbing his hair and revealing his ears. The man howls like a beast and lunges at him. “Stupid elven whores!” he snarls, stumbling and falling, crawling towards Raylan. He is so drunk or so enraged that he doesn't even see Raylan, can't see that it's a man he grabs at, just sees whoever has angered him. 

 

For a moment, Ariana is frozen in terror, and Raylan seems to be as well. Then, he howls and Ariana shakes herself free, feels no fear for herself, only her friend. She launches herself at the man, bringing her blade around as she knocks into him. It plunges into his right eye and he screams, an unholy sound of agony. He rears up and Raylan kicks out forcefully into his chest. The man in the robin tunic sprawls across the ground, clutching at his face. Adrenaline surging through his veins, Raylan wrenches the blade from the man's face and plunges it into his throat. 

 

The man's howls are cut off abruptly, only wet gurgles issuing from the blood-soaked mouth now. Raylan falls back in horror and Ariana drops down beside him, pulls him against her chest and looks skyward. If the Maker exists, if he watches them now, he will understand, won't he? 

 

He must. 

 

 

They find a stream and scrub the blood from their hands. They ride hard back to Highever, silence ringing between them, but they have nothing to say. They present their kills (their animal kills) to Nan and shuffle off to their rooms. Once the door to Ariana's chambers have shut, they strip off their soiled clothes and hurl them into the flames. They stand there in their smalls, watching the fire devour the cloth. 

 

They dress again, in new, unsoiled clothes and Raylan presses a knife into Ariana's hands.

 

“My hair,” Raylan says, voice cracking and hoarse. “Cut it. Please.” 

 

“Aye,” she replies softly. He sits between her thighs and she sets to work, chopping his hair off methodically. She cuts Oren's hair sometimes, has a knack for it. After a moment, she says, “When we met, Fergus killed the man who attempted to force himself on your mother.” He nods. “I think...I think men like that, they deserve to die. There are some men, some women too, I suppose, who just need to be killed. No one can fault us for that, no matter how they may try.”

 

When the last of Raylan's hair falls, he reaches up and curls his fingers around her wrist. “Ari,” he whispers. “Thank you.” 

 

She wraps her arms around his shoulders and rests her chin on his head. “For you, I would kill a hundred men.” 

 

“And I, for you,” he vows. 

 

 

There is a Dalish man in the nearest market who does tattoos. When they approach him, he eyes them warily, but beckons them into his shop. “I can only do so many designs, you know,” he tells them.

 

“Do you have something like a robin?” Ariana asks. 

 

“I do, aye,” he replies, showing them a design. It is birdlike, for certain, but only if you study it. Ariana declares it perfect and tells him where they want it. “This will hurt, you know, my lady.” 

 

“I'll be fine,” she snaps. “Do you want our coin or not?” 

 

“Aye, aye, sit then,” he says, gesturing for them to climb into a pair of oddly made chairs. 

 

It does hurt, fiercer than anything they've ever felt. It is worth it, in the end, they decide. The marks on their skin remind them of their resolve. To protect each other, to rid the world of evil men, to never be taken advantage of. 

 

Mother is horrified, outraged that her beautiful daughter would deface herself so. Father frowns and Fergus gives them a subtle thumbs up when their parents aren't looking. They feed a line about loyalty and allegiance to Highever and Ferelden, but keep their true motivation to themselves. This is not something they need to share with anyone. They wouldn't understand.

 

Ten years later, Alistair brushes a hand across Ariana's face as they are nearing sleep and asks what it means. She looks at him and thinks of the Wardens, of all he's lost, of all he's gone through. They are not dissimilar and she feels...he would understand. She tells him and he holds her and in the morning he sweeps Raylan into a fierce hug and says, “You're the strongest man I know.” 

 

Raylan raises an eyebrow, Ariana points to her face and he nods, tightens his arms around Alistair and says, “Don't you forget it.” 


	8. Chapter 8

“So, he needs four Grey Wardens up there, holding the torch just in case?” Alistiar sighs, dryly. 

 

“It does seem a bit ridiculous,” Ariana agrees, crossing her arms. “And a waste of our talents, perhaps I should-”

 

“This is not your choice to make. If the king wishes the Grey Wardens ensure the beacon is lit, the Grey Wardens will be there. I wouldn't have thought I'd have to explain this to a Cousland,” Dunan replies with the same stern expression her father would get when she backsassed him one too many times. 

 

“Ooh, the disapproving papa bear look,” Ariana mutters. “We're in trouble.” 

 

Alistair snorts. Duncan frowns. “We must do whatever it takes to destroy the darkspawn, exciting or no.” 

 

“I get it, I get it,” Alistair says. “Just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I'm drawing the line. Darkspawn or no.”

 

“You...have some odd ideas about the king,” Raylan says, hitching an eyebrow. 

 

“I happen to be quite fetching in a dress!” Alistair replies, raising one back. 

 

“I think I'd like to see that,” Ariana giggles. 

 

“For you, maybe,” Alistair murmurs, smirking at her. “But it has to be a pretty dress.” 

 

Duncan sighs. 

 

“That could be a great distraction,” Genevieve chimes in. Duncan sighs again. 


	9. Chapter 9

They hold the guards back. Ariana duels Howe in the center of the dungeon, the red haze of the berserker rage pulsing with each swing of her sword. The last of his guards falls, spraying Zevran with blood and Alistair looks over. Ariana looms over Howe, sprawled across the blood-soaked stones. He gasps something about his destiny, about the Couslands and Ariana roars, plunging her blade into his face. He dies silently and bloodily. Ariana slumps down, falls to her knees still straddling his lifeless chest. The red haze fades and she stares at her hands, eyes wide. 

 

“It's finished,” she whispers, voice hoarse and rough. “He's dead.” 

 

Zevran utters some Antivan oath. “Good riddance,” he says. 

 

“You have your revenge, child,” Wynne adds, but says nothing else. Out of respect for Ariana's choice or meerly respect for her grief, Alistair isn't sure. 

 

“Are you alright?” Alistair asks, kneeling beside her and taking one of her hands in his. A drop of clear, warm wetness hits his hand. He doesn't say anything. 

 

“My parents are still dead,” she whispers. “Oren is still dead. Revenge tastes like death and ash. Yet,” she pauses and breathes deeply, tilting her head back. Her eyes are red, but dry. “I feel freer.” She squeezes his hand. “He's dead,” she giggles, a mad smile cracking her face. “He'll hurt no one else. His blood is on my hands and it's the best thing I've ever felt.” 

 

“You're in a wonderful place right now, I can see that,” Zevran says, shifting on his feet. “And the blood lust is a great look on you, really, but I must remind you that we are still technically outlaws who murdered the Arl of Denerim in his own dungeon, so we should perhaps not linger.” 

 

“Aye,” Ariana says, clearing her throat and pulling her hand from Alistair's. She retrieves the the key (among other things) from Howe's body and stands. She stares at him for another moment before delivering a swift kick to his destroyed face and yanking her sword out. 

 

“Mature,” Wynne sighs. 

 

“That was for Cyrion,” Ariana replies, picking up her shield. “Let's go get Alistair's stupid sister-in-law.” 


	10. Chapter 10

Garrett is so happy to be on the surface again that, for a long moment, he's sorely tempted to drop to his knees and kiss the moldy, wet planks of the docks. The look Marian gives him suggests that she's aware of his urge and has a number of nasty surprises in store should he act on it. So he resists. Instead, he takes a deep breath and grins wryly at her. Varric is speaking, offering consoling words about Bethany and echoing Anders' assurances that she'll be alright. Varric is halfway through an oddly solemn and fierce oath to hunt Bartrand down when Anders yelps in alarm and ducks behind Garrett's bulk. Garrett is big, bigger than someone who moves as quickly as he does has any right to be, but Anders is not small and looks a bit ridiculous crouched behind him.

“You look ridiculous,” Marian sighs, kicking at his ankle. “What are you doing?”

“I need to hide,” Anders hisses, shuffling when Garrett attempts to turn to look at him. He gives up and peers around for the cause of Anders' bizarre distress and spots nothing, except -

“Look, It's Isabela!” he says, preparing to call out to her when Anders claps his hands over his mouth.

“Shht!” the mage hisses. “She's not alone.”

She isn't. There's three people surrounding her, three fairly intimidating-looking people who have apparently reduced Anders to a meek and frightened rabbit. “Friends of yours?” Marian smirks.

“Once,” Anders sighs. “It's complicated.” His statement is met with three expectant stares, causing him to sigh and gesture for them to follow until he's hidden in an alcove, out of the line of sight. “Did I ever tell you how I _became_ a Grey Warden?”

“I know you had a cat,” Garrett supplies. 

“That was after,” Anders says. “It was after my seventh escape from the Circle. The Templars were talking be back, but stopped at Vigil's Keep – ah, the Grey Warden headquarters in Amaranthine – to restock. That's when the darkspawn came, they killed the Templars and I was finishing them off when, lo and behold, in walks the Warden-Commander and her second, Bann Raylan.”

“The Warden-Commander?” Garrett repeats. “You mean the Queen?”

“The one and only,” Anders replies. “She conscripted me. Stood up the Templars that came with her husband, King Alistair. I didn't want to be a Grey Warden, but it was better than being shipped back to the Circle.” He stops and sighs. “We became...friends. Raylan, too. Good friends. She's the one who gave me Ser Pounce-A-Lot. And then, I ran. I...didn't expect them to let it be, really. Ariana, she's-” He pauses, looking for the right words. “Big on loyalty. And a very good woman. Raylan is an excellent tracker.”

He stares mournfully over Garrett's shoulder at the people assembled around Isabela. Two women, by the looks of it, and a slight man, probably an elf. He's dressed much the same as the shorter woman, in black leathers with hoods pulled low on their faces. The gold accents on their clothing betray their wealth, for all that they seem to be attempting to blend with the Kirkwall commoners. The taller woman wears no hood, her brown hair ruffled by the breeze. She looks like a bodyguard, in her silvery light armor with the sword and shield on her back. The man is armed, too, with the most beautiful long bow strapped to his back, nearly dwarfing him, as is the shorter woman, who's hand rests on the hilt of a curved longsword that shimmers when the light catches it.

Garrett frowns at them and Anders says, “Looks like they found me.”

There's a stretched, stunned silence while his companions process his words. Garrett is the first to speak. “Them? The-Queen Ariana? _Here_?”

“Why would the Warden-Commander come to drag you in _personally_?” Varric asks, bewildered.

“I told you we were friends, I'm sure she took my abandonment very _personally_ ,” Anders shoots back, mimicking his tone. “She can't see me, I'm not-”

It's too late. Isabela has spotted them (it's not like Garrett and Marian are particularly unassuming) and is pointing. The man and woman turn and Garrett sees red hair spilling from the edge of her hood. Her eyes are hidden, but her mouth tightens and, with a curt nod, she begins striding across the docks, head high and shoulders square. The elf sticks close behind her, but Isabela and the other woman linger back, looking inappropriately gleeful.

“Oh, Maker,” Anders whispers, looking like a trapped rat.

“You slippery bastard,” the hooded woman snarls – _Queen Ariana_ , Garrett's brain supplies helpfully and he resists the urge to kneel. She elbows Garrett and Marian out of the way and looms in front of Anders in a way that no woman of her stature should be able to. It makes Garrett feel about three feet tall. “I should drag you back to Amaranthine by your ankles and hang you from the gates.” 

“Ariana-” Anders starts, but she slaps him. The hood flops back and wild red hair flies loose to match the fire in her eyes.

“You will not speak,” she hisses, but her expression is not _angry_ as much as it is.

Relieved. 

“Do you have any _idea_ how terrified I have been?” she continues. “Maker's ass, Anders, you disappeared! We had no idea what had become of you! Raylan and Nate and I searched Amaranthine, but we found no trace of you. We thought you'd died!” Her voice is rising in both volume and pitch, betraying the honest emotions she seemed to be hiding. “Then _Isabela_ – of _all_ people – tells me you're holed up in some Kirkwall slum and you've gone and gotten yourself _possessed_!”

“It's only _Justice_!” Anders counters, hissing and she smacks his chest.

“You-!” her voice is loud, so loud, and they are beginning to attract attention. Raylan stomps on her foot and she shouts, glares at him. 

“This is not the place,” he says quietly, voice deeper than Garrett would've guessed. It makes him miss Fenris. “Nor the time. Remember our company and where they have just come from.”

Ariana deflates visibly, lowering her raised arm and taking a deep breath. She smooths down her hair and slips her hood back up on her head, then looks at the rest of them for the first time. She nods to Varric, who nods back and Garrett is completely unsurprised at the implication that they seem to know one another. Looking at Garrett and Marian, she smiles pleasantly and says, “I apologize for my behavior. I am Ariana.” She bows her head slightly.

“Yes,” Garrett blurts, then, “I mean, we've heard. My lady. Your Majest-”

“Shh!” Ariana hisses, pressing her finger to her lips. “You are Ferelden, yes?” Garrett nods. “Then you're aware of the general prejudice against our people? So, let's not announce my identity to the masses, hm?” It's said gently and with a kind smile, but it feels like a threat. “You are-” she starts, then pauses and frowns around. “Were there not five of you?”

Garrett makes a stricken noise and Marian's jaw tightens. Anders speaks for them, softly. “Their sister, Bethany, she contracted the taint. We intercepted Stroud and I managed to convince him to have her undertake the Joining.”

Ariana makes a soft sound and nods. “I see. I shall send word to the Keep, see what I hear. In the meantime, I would speak to Anders privately. I have business with you two and your mother, as well,” she says to Marian. “I know that you will need time to inform her of your sister's fate. I shall come by tomorrow, I think. If you don't mind?”

Garrett doesn't think he's at a place in his life where he can deny the Queen of Ferelden, Hero of Ferelden and Slayer of the Archdemon, anything, so he nods. Marian does the same, looking similarly pole-axed. Ariana rounds on Anders, who lets out an uncharacteristically girly whimper. “Come,” she demands, striding away from them. Anders follows, casting desperate looks back at Varric and the Hawkes. Raylan bows his head to them and follows quietly. The taller woman – who's name is still a mystery - kisses Isabela's cheek and waves as she scampers after them.

“Well, that was bracing,” Garrett gasps, feeling like he just let out a breath he'd been holding for hours.

“She's terrifying,” Marian whispers. “And the elf! And that other one, just looming there like they were ready to stab first as questions later.”

“Ariana's always reminded me a bit of a hurricane,” Isabela says, looking overly fond in a way that's somewhat alien. “Beautifully destructive with a deadly calm at the center.”

“I'm mildly frightened that you know her that well,” Mariana sighs. “We should head home, brother.”

“Yeah,” Garrett mumurs. He nods at Varric and Isabela. “Drinks later?”

“Wouldn't miss it, kitten,” Isabela replies, squeezing his arm and kissing Marian's cheek. She and Varric stroll off, arm in arm.

“Shall we?” Garrett asks.

“I'm not holding your hand, little brother,” Mariana says, walking off.  


	11. Chapter 11

The first time they meet, Ariana is twelve and Cailan is seventeen. Their fathers retire to Bryce's study to talk of the glory days, leaving Cailan and Fergus to look after Ariana and Raylan. She sizes them up with a critical eye and challenges them to a race. 

 

She wins. As her prize, she makes Cailan carry her around on his back for the rest of the week. 

 

“Your sister is mad,” Cailan tells Fergus, wheezing slightly with his laughter as Ariana kicks his ribs. 

 

“Isn't she wonderful?” Fergus chuckles. 

 

“Fergus, you carry Raylan!” Ariana chirps. 

 

“What? That wasn't part of the deal!” Fergus whines, but Raylan is already climbing on his back. 

 

“He weighs, like, two pounds, don't be a baby,” Ariana replies, sticking out her tongue. “Let's go!” 

 

Eleanor is horrified to find her daughter riding the prince like a pack mule and says as much in her quiet, intense Angry Mother voice. “No, no,” Ariana says, insistent and stroking Cailan's hair. “It's more like he's a halla. Prince Cailan's my friend!” 

 

Eleanor quietly turns purple as Maric and Bryce appear, laughing merrily at the sight. 

 

 

The next time they meet, Ariana is fifteen and Cailan is twenty, but she looks older. Fergus has been horrified for the past year as his baby sister began to fill out across her chest and hips. Cailan does a double take when he sees her, mentally attempting to assimilate the chesty young woman swinging a sword through the courtyard with the young girl who had climbed onto his shoulders. 

 

She twirls a bit dramatically and buries the point of her blade into the practice dummy and then winks at him from across the way. Cailan smiles goofily and Fergus pointedly stomps on his foot. “No.”

 

“I don't know what you mean, old friend,” Cailan says, making a big deal out of fixing his gaze on something not Ariana's swaying hips. 

 

“Cailan, she's my baby sister,” Fergus pleads. 

 

“I'm not a baby, Fergy,” Ariana pouts, sliding up to them. 

 

“Yes. Yes, you are,” Fergus insists. “You're a baby now and you'll be a baby when you're forty and leading our forces. You are my baby sister.” 

 

“You're worse than Lord Bryce,” Raylan mutters, materializing at Ariana's elbow and making the older men shout in alarm. “Ariana can make her own choices.” 

 

Fergus makes a pitiful noise, but is prevented from protesting further by Nan's howls across the yard for them to come to dinner. 

 

That night, Ariana presses herself into Cailan's hands. “Have you ever?” he whispers against her lips. 

 

“No,” she admits, quietly, but there is no shyness in her eyes or hands. “Not all the way, anyway. There was some foolishness with the prince of Starkhaven, but it didn't go anywhere.” 

 

“Are you sure?” he asks, because that's important. He won't take this from her if she's not ready to give it. 

 

“Yes, Maker's breath, don't be such a woman,” Ariana hisses, pushing him back onto the bed and climbing into his lap. “I'm not going to break.” 

 

It isn't perfect, of course, but it could have been worse. When they're done, Ariana leaves, because she wants to, because Cailan is her friend, but not her lover. The next day they go hunting, and they kill a boar and that night, Cailan knocks on her door and they fall together again. 

 

It's much better the second time. And the third, the fourth, the fifth. 

 

 

Cailan marries Anora and they stop. Ariana doesn't like Anora, but Cailan seems to. Cailan wasn't her only one, not even close, but now he's married and Sebastian's been shipped off the the Chantry. It's annoying. 

 

But she's fine. Cailan is her friend first and her lover when they had no one else. They are still friends, although Anora sneers suspiciously whenever they meet, no doubt imagining woodland trysts and secret love letters. Ariana has no mind to disabuse her of her foolish notions. A little jealousy never killed anyone. 

 

In any event, if Anora thinks she can keep Cailan leashed and collared like a neutered mabari, she's in for an unpleasant surprise. 

 

Maric disappears and Cailan is crowned. They hold a funeral with no body and Cailan stands, regal in the royal armor, with his hands clenched at his sides. 

 

When it's over, Ariana finds Cailan in a storage closet, armor piled in the corner, with his head in his hands. She sits beside him and curls one hand into one of his. He lays his head on her shoulder and she kisses his hair. 

 

“Can I do this?” he asks, voice rough from disuse and unshed tears. 

 

“You can,” Ariana says with conviction. Cailan is a good man with a good heart. Anora is smart, shrewd and politically savvy. Ferelden will be fine. “You've got me, remember? A king will not fail with a Cousland at his back.” 

 

“Thank you,” he says, quietly and squeezes her hand. 

 

 

 

Ariana hunts all over Ostagar for Cailan while Genevieve and Raylan chat with Alistair and the other recruits. She finds him, finally, back in his tent, frowning at his maps. He looks older than he is and very tired. “Cailan?” she says, to announce her prescence. 

 

He looks up suddenly and smiles. “Ariana! My friend, I'm glad you found me.” 

 

“You are remarkably difficult to pin down for a man so large in such shiny armor,” Ariana smirks, stepping in to take a seat at his table. 

 

“I'm sorry we haven't gotten a chance to talk before now,” Cailan says with such genuine sincerity, her teeth ache. “I'm so sorry about Highever. I swear to you, we will bring Howe to justice.”

 

Ariana forces her smile not to waver. “You're a good friend, Cailan. Perhaps we should focus on the battle here, hm? It won't be easy.” 

 

“No,” Cailan replies with a heavy sigh. He stares at the maps and then glances at her. She tilts her head encouragingly, making her eyes wide and non-threatening. “You have been a good friend for many years, Ariana. May I be honest with you?” 

 

“Of course, my lord,” Ariana replies. 

 

Cailan shakes his head as he always does when she addresses him formally in private. “I am not as confident in our success as I would have the others believe.” 

 

Ariana nods and leans forward, placing one gloved hand on his gauntleted wrist. “I know,” she whispers, conspiratorially. “But that's alright. That just means you aren't stupid. No victory is assured, my father used to tell me. To believe otherwise is to invite failure. A good leader must be prepared for the best and the worst.” 

 

Cailan breathes, processing her words, then nods sharply. “Your father was a wise man,” he tells her. 

 

“Aye,” she whispers, swallowing against the grief still churning in her gut. “And remember, no king shall fail with a Cousland at his back.” 

 

Cailan laughs and covers her hand with his. “Thank you, my friend.” 

 

“Of course,” she replies with a king smile. 

 

 

The king died at Ostagar, they say. At the hands of a ogre. 

 

She doesn't hear them. She can't. 

 

A king cannot fail with a Cousland at his back. 

 

She must stop the Blight. 

 

 

 

The uneasy dread settled in her stomach as soon as Cailan's name left Elric's lips. She hears the disgust and anger mounting in Alistair's voice as they find more of Cailan's things on the bodies of darkspawn. She strips them away viciously, shoving them in her pack to clean. 

 

Alistair takes Cailan's shield and Maric's sword reverently, like they're holy and will disintegrate at his touch. As his fingers close around the hilt, Maric's sword flares briefly, humming in Alistair's grip. “It recognizes you,” Wynne says. Alistair's jaw tightens. 

 

They cross the bridge, making for the Tower, just like old times. Raylan sees it first, lets out a quiet, horrified gasp. Wynne whispers Cailan's name and Ariana freezes. She can see it, blurry, out of the corner of her eye, but feels frozen. Looking at it will make it real. 

 

It's already real, she tells herself. Don't be a child. 

 

She looks up and the horror and sorrow that sweeps over her at the sight drives her to her knees. She stares, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, at Cailan, stripped to his smalls and pinned like some corrupted idol. His eyes stare, lifeless and unblinking, down at her and a sob wrenches through her throat. She feels a hand on her shoulder, but she can't hear anything. She may be speaking, may be screaming, but hears nothing except her own words ringing in her ears. _A king cannot fail with a Cousland at his back_. 

 

Lighting crackles past her face and her head whips around to find a genlock emissary summoning corpses at the end of the bridge. With an enraged howl, she stands, unsheathing her sword and barreling down the bridge. The others shout after her, but she is gone too far into the beserker rage to hear them. 

 

Her rage carries her through the tower, through the tunnels and onto the battlefield. She sees an ogre, Duncan's swords buried in its chest and she knows. 

 

That one killed Cailan. 

 

Then it rises, brought back from the Fade by the twisted necromancer across the snow-strewn field. Time slows for long moments as it rounds on them, then snaps back and speeds up. Rage engulfs her and her vision tunnels on the beast in front of her, Duncan's weapons still lodging in it's flesh. She throws herself at it with renewed vigor, slamming and slicing and leaping onto its face to drive her sword between it's eyes, taking revenge for Cailan's death a second time. She stands beside it, panting and bleeding. 

 

Alistair's hand closes around her wrist. “Ariana,” he murmurs. “It's over. Come, love.” 

 

She sags against him for a moment, then straightens and stalks back the way they came. 

 

Cailan's body burns and Ariana allows the tears to flow free. “I am sorry, Cailan,” she says, barely loud enough to be heard above the crackle of the flames. “You were a good friend, a good lover and an excellent king. Go in peace to the Maker's side.” Alistair slides a hand across her back and she curls into his chest. “I want to leave,” she whispers. 

 

“Let's go,” he replies. They leave Cailan burning, bright like the sun, like a beacon for his fallen soldiers to follow their king in the beyond. 


	12. Chapter 12

“Bela,” Ariana sighs, smoothing her hand over the pirate's thigh. “Leave the boy be. If he doesn't want to be a raider, he doesn't have to be a raider.”

 

“But it would be fun!” Isabela pouts. “You could come, too!”

 

“Don't tempt me,” Ariana sighs, winking at Fenris, who shakes his head. “Oh, look, it's Garrett. Hello, cousin!”

 

“Don't you have a country to run?” Garrett asks, arching an eyebrow. “I feel like you're everywhere.”

 

“Last time we left you alone for more than five minutes, you started and ended a war with the Qunari and basically took over Kirkwall,” she responds with a stern, accusatory look on her face.

 

“Sorry killing the Arishok isn't quiet as impressive as killing an Archdemon, but we all have to start somewhere,” Garrett says with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. Isabela guffaws as Ariana glares and Fenris chuckles quietly. “I'd like to speak with Fenris. _Privately_ , if you two would excuse us.” He phrases it like it's a choice, but he pulls them both to their feet and starts to push them out the door.

 

“Alright, grabby, relax,” Isabela giggles, allowing herself to be pushed. Instead of going down the stairs, however, Ariana takes advantage of Garrett's distraction to drag Isabela into the alcove next to the doorway. “What are we doing?” Isabela whispers.

 

“There's no way we're leaving now, look at them,” Ariana hisses back. Isabela does look at them, looks at the soft smiles on their faces and the intense burning in their eyes. “I'm staying here to make sure Garrett doesn't fuck it up.”

 

“I'm sure he'll-”

 

“Bela, it's _Garrett_ ,” Ariana says, raising her eyebrows.

 

“You're right, there's no harm watching out for him. They're our friends, after all,” Isabela agrees at peers around Ariana's chest.

 

“We have never discussed what happened between us three years ago,” they hear Fenris say. Isabela squeals quietly.

 

“Here we go,” Ariana whispers and begins a near silent mantra of _don't cock it up, cousin_. He doesn't, everything is going really smoothly. “Does he seem...smoother than usual?”

 

“With age comes wisdom?” Isabela offers.

 

“Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you,” Fenris says, voice rough and deeper than usual. The girls coo very quietly.

 

“Or he asked Varric for pointers,” Ariana smirks.

 

“More likely,” Isabela responds, then winces as Garrett makes a stupid remark. It seems to have no ill effects as Fenris practically climbs into his lap and swears a future together. Garrett stands, suddenly and - “Oohh. That's a nice kiss.”

 

“I miss my husband,” Ariana sighs, wistful. “Oh. Oh, that's- clothes are coming off, we should. We should leave.” She rears back, scooting away from the doorway and the sounds of gauntlets falling to the floor.

 

“How?” Isabela questions, still watching unabashedly. Ariana grabs the edge of her belt and hauls her backwards. “Even if we could sneak past the door, they're both too well trained not to notice the front door shutting.”

 

“So, we're just going to sit here and-” a loud groan echoes through the empty house and there's the muffled thud of a body connecting with a wall. “Listen to my cousin nail our favorite escaped slace to the wall? Wow, this place has excellent acoustics, huh.”

 

“Looks that way,” Isabela replies with a shrug. She fishes a deck of cards from somewhere and waves them around. “Diamondback?”

 

“Oh, Maker, _yes_ ,” Garrett moans.

 

“Why not,” Ariana sighs.

 

Two hours later, Isabela is losing badly and Garrett saunters out of the room, refastening the buckles on his quiver and spots the women. “Have you two been there the whole time?” he sighs, but he doesn't seem surprised.

 

“Congrats on the sex,” Ariana replies, winning four the 17th straight hand. “Loud little fucker, isn't he?”

 

“What-” comes Fenris' voice before his head appears in the doorway. He swears in Arcanum and Ariana giggles. “I think my lack of surprise is what worries me the most,” he says.

 

“Hey, I wanted to leave,” Ariana points out, standing and brushing the cobwebs off her ass. “But, seriously, I'm very happy for you both. Let's go save Bela's beautiful butt.”  


	13. Chapter 13

When they enter the Guard-Captain's office, they find Aveline thoroughly emasculating poor Bran, while Ariana lounges against the desk looking amused.

 

“His excellency can mount it,” Aveline finishes, a thunderous tone of finality in her voice. Bran sighs, pulls himself up to full height and leaves.

 

Beside Aveline, Ariana purrs, “Mount _me_.”

 

“Ariana,” Aveline says, weary affection lacing her voice.

 

“Ooh, Ser Aveline,” the queen continues, hopping up onto the desk and sprawling across it. “Take me on the desk, you magnificent beast. Alistair and Donnic will never know.”

 

“You're an idiot,” Aveline mutters.

 

“Indeed!” Ariana cheers. “One might even call me a royal idiot.”

 

“I'm sure many do,” Aveline laughs.

 

“Ouch!” Ariana cries, flopping back from the apparently mortal wound she has suffered to her ego. “Oh, the Hawkes! What a surprise.”

 

“Go bother someone else, your majesty,” Aveline hisses, hauling Ariana off the desk and pushing her out the door. Ariana blows her a dramatic kiss, but pulls her hood over her face and saunters off. Aveline smiles, then turns to Garret and Marian. “Trouble, Hawkes?”


	14. Chapter 14

Ariana catches Fenris on the stairs, curling a hand into his and squeezing through an armored gauntlet. He looks up at her, startled, and she gives him a watery smile. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “I know it can't be easy, after –“ she waves a hand. “-- you know. What happened.”

 

Fenris looks away, uncomfortable. He hadn't even thought of that. “I didn't want him to be alone, hurting, I -”

 

Ariana leans down and presses a short, dry kiss to his cheek and bumps her forehead against his temple. “You're a good man,” she says, voice quiet and gentle. “Better than you think. So, thank you.”

 

“I did not do it for you,” he replies, but smiles tightly and squeezes her hand back. “But you are welcome.”

 

Ariana lets out a breathy sound that would be a laugh at any other time. She releases his hand and waves as she takes the stairs two at a time.

 

 

Ariana is no stranger to grief. Almost five years later, the attack on Highever still burns in her gut in her low moments. Raylan, too, still feels haunted by the choices they made that night. Far too often, she will awake in the twilight hours and find him hunched over in the kitchens. They will drink and they will talk until the rest of the palace wakes.

 

They divide and conquer. After Merrill and Fenris slip out, Ariana shuffles into Garrett's room, Raylan into Marian's. Genevieve opts to stay downstairs, playing catch with Sandal and the dogs. Ariana knocks and Garrett grunts out and invitation. He offers a stretch of his lips when he sees it's her and shifts over on the bed. She crawls up beside him and fits herself under his arm, laying her head on his chest. She'd do this with Fergus, sometimes, when they were younger. There's a long stretch of silence, then Garrett whispers, “Does it get easier?”

 

“I can't say for certain,” she replies quietly. “I still feel it, some days worse than others. But, most days I'm fine. I can't say for you, but we are a lot alike.”

 

“At least yours had a reason,” he spits, bitterly. She doesn't tense, she's been thinking it, too. “A stupid, disgusting reason, but at least it made _sense_ , somewhat, but this? This is- I don't even know how to grieve.”

 

“Gascard still lives, does he not?” Garrett nods into her hair. “My family's murder was a jagged, open wound that made my unstable and angry for months. But then, I got to drive a sword through Howe's slimy, smirking face. I cornered him in his own dungeon like a rat and beat the piss out of him while Alistair and the others dispatched his guards. When he fell, he gave some awful speech about how he deserved more, so I drove my family's sword into his mouth.”

 

“And?” he asks, quietly.

 

“I laughed,” she admits. “It tasted like ashes and felt like I'd just broken through the ice of a frozen over pond. I was brittle and cold, but I was free. It didn't bring anyone back, but it made me feel better than I'd felt in months. Then I took over Ferelden, married the love of my life and killed an Archdemon. Not in that order.”

 

To their mutual surprise, this jolts a short, raspy chuckle out of Garrett's throat. “So, you think we should kill him?”

 

“With gusto,” Ariana replies, squeezing him.

 

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Garrett hums. “I'm sure Marian will be on board as well. But,” he yawns. “Tomorrow. I am...exhausted.”

 

“Sleep,” Ariana whispers. “Murder tomorrow.”


End file.
